


Long Black Veil

by streimel



Category: Infinite (Band), f(x)
Genre: F/M, Southern Gothic K-pop, can this be a thing?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-27 11:31:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2691314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/streimel/pseuds/streimel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Oh, the judge said son,</i>
  <br/>
  <i>What is your alibi?</i>
  <br/>
  <i>If you were somewhere else</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Then you won't have to die."</i>
</p><p>Sungyeol sacrifices everything to protect those that he loves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Black Veil

**Author's Note:**

> So a few months ago, I wrote 9000 words of this and then accidentally deleted it and was...kind of devastated. But like many stories, it simply would NOT leave me alone and so I re-wrote it. And here it is in all it's, uh, glory, I guess.
> 
> I am not a f(x) fan, per se. I know very little about Victoria. If I wrote her wrong (and I probably did), I'm sorry.
> 
> So a few months ago, I wrote 9000 words of this and then accidentally deleted it and was...kind of devastated. But like many stories, it simply would NOT leave me alone and so I re-wrote it. And here it is in all it's, uh, glory, I guess.
> 
> I am not a f(x) fan, per se. I know very little about Victoria. If I wrote her wrong (and I probably did), I'm sorry.
> 
> The whole plot is completely lifted from the folk song (The) Long Black Veil. I learned it from Dave Matthews Band and have grown to love it dearly. However, there are many other great versions by wonderful artists (Johnny Cash and Joni Mitchell, The Band, Joan Baez!!)
> 
> Also, I picked Eastern Tennessee because it's a coal mining region, Anderson County has a fascinating history (well, the whole region does, actually), and it's very close to where I grew up. Still, because I did grow up in a slightly different region, some of my own dialect might not match Eastern Tennessee's 100%, so if it's not spot on....that's 100% my bad.
> 
> Okay this was a lot of pointless shit on to the story:

From his position on the cot, he can't see the scaffold being built, but he can hear it. A clanking of a hammer, hitting nails into plywood, the sound reverberating though the air. If he wanted to, all it would take is a turn of his head, a glance over his shoulder through the bars on the window, and he could see the men below, hammering away at the slats on the stage. As it is, he can still smell it when the wind blows the right way, the heady stickiness of newly-cut pine; he wonders, not for the first time, if this was the intention, to build it just below his vision, to get in his mind and twist there, 'til he goes crazy. Knowing the god damn sheriff, it wouldn't be surprising if that were just the situation.  


When it gets dark, he'll be kept awake by the lamp post, and he'd bet all his worldly possessions that that was no accident either. The sheriff is still waiting for some last minute confession, as if that would change anything, and he's forced to think about the damn lamp post every time he tries to sleep. It humors him, in a sick sort of way, that the damn thing can be so bright, flooding light over the square and keeping him awake, but it couldn't illuminate the square well enough that all the witnesses might have been able to distinguish that whoever killed that man wasn't him. Funny how it works out like that.

He hears familiar steps thudding down the hallway, nearly drowned out by the clacking of metal on metal. The sheriff is running the key along the bars in the hall, and he can hear the few other inmates moan in response. More little games, meant to remind them of their own fragile mortality, of how they're locked up like dogs in a cage, but he blocks it out. Soon, it'll all be over, and he won't have to worry about this bullshit anymore.

The steps stop in front of his door, but he doesn't move to acknowledge him at all. "Lee, visitor here to see ye," the sheriff drawls in a thick, tobacco-heavy voice, but he still remains where he's at. There's only one person left to come see him, and he doesn't have to put on airs with this particular guest.

Everyone else has already come and gone, and, well frankly, it's been a little tedious. He only has so much time left, and he's had to spend so much of it watching old friends twist their hats in their hands, afraid to make eye contact. Not a single person in this town, maybe in the whole county, really believes he did it (minus the sheriff and judge), and they all don't know what to say. What  _is_  there to say? It may be injustice and all, but he's just ready to get it over with. He hates the face he has to put on, how he has to reassure these friends of his as they struggle to meet his eye. Why do they feel so bad? It's not like they're facing the hangman come noon.

"Myungsoo." It's as much of a greeting he's going to offer, and he doesn't even look when Myungsoo meanders on in, pulling over the small stool in the corner to sit down on. He could ignore Myungsoo coldly right now, not even say a word, but Myungsoo wouldn't be offended. That's just their relationship, the relationship they've had since they were young, and neither of them say a word, listening to the constant beat of the hammer outside the window.

"Are you sure someone didn't see you that night?"

His eyes close, teeth gritting to keep from snapping out something he'll regret. Everyone else understands, has come to uncomfortable terms with his fate, but Myungsoo keeps holding on. That's just who Myungsoo is; he's so sure something will come up in the next 18 hours, some hint or clue or witness that will prove his innocence will come out of the woodwork and he'll walk free, back to his empty cabin and his godforsaken job and his dead-end life. It's not going to happen, but Myungsoo has a certain level of faith he's never seen rivaled by anyone in these parts, and he refuses to give it up.

"Let it go, man." Being with Myungsoo is freeing, in that he can act his caustic, cynical self and not have to act like he did with so many of the others. "Besides, lotta people saw me. Seems like, least," he adds as an afterthought, chuckling bitterly at his own joke.

He hadn't understood at first, how so many people could be sure it was him. In his last letter to Daeyeol, somewhere on a u-boat out in the ocean right now, or maybe already in Europe, he had jokingly asked him why he couldn't have gone somewhere else and killed a man; they look close enough to be mistaken for each other as is. Daeyeol's his last real regret, that he'll never get to say a real goodbye, that he'll be gone soon enough and up there (if that's where he's going) with mama and daddy, leaving Daeyeol alone in the world. Hopefully he won't even come back, but live on away from this hell hole. He can only hope.

"It's not going to happen, Myungsoo," he interrupts when Myungsoo goes to speak again, and Myungsoo's mouth closes with a click. He can tell Myungsoo's getting angry, that he wants to fight and rage and argue with him, with the world for this, but it's no use. He's accepted it, and Myungsoo needs to as well.

They lapse into silence again, and he doesn't even move until he hears the heavy choke for air coming from beside him. He doesn't want it to be like this, but he finally stands up, Myungsoo's face pressing into his side as he sobs. He's not one for much touching, but Myungsoo's always needed a lot of physical reassurance, and he strokes his hair until the sobs lessen, settling into small sighs. It's his last day on God's green Earth, and while he could play his cards anyway he wants, refuse to do this or that because he feels that he's entitled to, Myungsoo's always been there for him, always, and he hasn't given himself the time to think about how much it's going to affect Myungsoo, how much he's going to have to endure.

Her too.

He curses himself for thinking about her, because he hasn't this entire time, and for good reason. If he stops, allows himself to let those thoughts creep in, he might start regretting this whole thing, might start wanting to talk and say things that have no right to be said, and those consequences are a hell of a lot worse than some tarred rope swinging in the wind. He has to block her out; there's no choice. No choice whatsoever.

"She's with child, you know? Reckon it happened right before I went on over to Nashville to see Moonsoo."

He knows Myungsoo's waiting on some response from him, some sort of congratulations, maybe a discussion about his impending fatherhood and all the things he'll do, just like they discussed when they were teenagers taking care of their younger siblings. He wishes he could give that to him, but he's too concerned on counting back the weeks, figuring out dates and times.

Myungsoo went out to Nashville around five weeks ago; around five weeks ago was the county dance, the night the man got killed underneath the town hall light. The night he doesn't have an alibi for. The night this whole mess began.

He doesn't end up saying anything. The hammering's died out just like the light of the day, and a cold has settled into his bones that has nothing to do with frost blowing through the window. If Myungsoo's disappointed over his lack of enthusiasm, he doesn't let it show. He leaves the tin of cornbread and bacon on the stool, hugs him tight, and looks him over once without a word before calling for the sheriff.

There ain't nothing left to say anyway.

* * *

"I've a mind to take a wife."

He steps back from the rock wall, wiping the soot out of his eyes before looking back to Myungsoo, leaning against his pick across the tunnel.

"What are you going on about, now?" Myungsoo's always having some hare-brained idea, and this certainly isn't the first time he's brought up something straight stupid.

"A wife, Sungyeol. I find the idea of marriage suits me just fine."

They're far away enough from the rest of the crew that they won't be overheard (not like everyone in the town doesn't know everyone else's business as is), but he still moves closer to Myungsoo, moving his lantern to work beside him.

"Now, what do you need a wife for, anyways? Do you even know what to do with a wife?"

Myungsoo sends him a annoyed look, but he can see the gears turning in his head, of how he's going to explain his mindset. Myungsoo likes the idea of a woman, but he's barely talked to one for more than ten minutes at a time, and he doubts Myungsoo's plans have much more weight than something he's read in a dime book, or maybe the Bible. Myungsoo's a good man, but naive to the core; a wife would eat him alive.

He knows this, because he's a veritable Casanova of these hills. Every pretty young thing within 15 miles of this town has been in his sights. He knows how to roll them over behind the corncrib while the town is in the barn dancing away, tell them they mean the world, and be gone by the dawn. Not that he doesn't let them know right up front how exactly it'll go; every girl he meets knows he has no intention of settling down any time soon.

He likes having fun. Marriage is the very anti-thesis of fun. He watched his daddy die of a black lung, and his mama of a broken heart. He watches the women walk down the path, backs bent under the stress of the land, of raising 5, 6 children at the open mouth of rivers of coal, watch them hold their breath in the morning and finally breathe again once the men come out to the surface again. Maybe one day, when he gets out of here, lives in a real house in a city, with real windows and paved streets and running water, maybe then he'll find a good woman to settle down with.

But he ain't chaining a woman to a life like this. He just wish Myungsoo saw it the same.

"Well, I'm getting on now," Myungsoo explains, toeing at a rock underneath his boot. "It's time I find me a wife, start a family and have some children. My father already had a wife and child on the way by this time in his life.”

"'Soo, you're 23, not even a gray hair-"

"My father died at 38, Sungyeol-"

"And my father wasn't far behind, but you don't see me-"

"I'm not you!"

Myungsoo's voice echoes down the tunnel, and he can see the light of the foreman's lantern move side to side as he peers down their way. This has been, and always will be, the issue. Fate threw them together from birth, and despite all the years and experiences and general understandings of one another, they still can't find common ground on some things. Like this.

He's never understood Myungsoo's need to grow up so fast; they both lost their parents early, taking on the role of foster parent to their respective younger brothers, using all they could to send them out of this godforsaken county, and bearing the burden of remaining behind. But he didn't lose his youth, and Myungsoo shouldn't have lost his either. Just like Myungsoo doesn't understand his womanizing, he doesn't understand Myungsoo's rigid adherence to some spiritual pull enticing him to remain chaste to receive some eternal reward, and it's driving a wedge between them. Myungsoo has other things to worry about, other places to go and dreams to fulfill before he drags a woman into the whole mess.

"Okay," he finally says, slugging the pick into the wall and half-yelling over it, "but does it have to be so soon?"

"Time is wasting, ‘Yeol." Myungsoo's picked up his own tool again, looking for a spot, and that's the end of this conversation. He consoles himself with the fact there ain't a single young woman within 30 miles Myungsoo has his sights on, and it makes him feel just a bit better inside. There won't be any weddings happening any time soon, as he sees it.

* * *

It doesn't hit him until the very moment it happens that it's incredibly strange to know the very hour of your own death.

He's worked in the mines for the last 11 years, every day wondering if this is the day they'll dig too deep, collapse the tunnel, or if the mine will catch on fire and trap them in the flames. He's broken his leg, jumping from a tree, got hypothermia after falling in the river in January. All these things happened to him, fevers and injuries and incidents, but he's survived, and he'd be lying if he didn't admit it made him feel invincible, like he was going to live forever, Death be damned. So many moments that could have ended it all, and he laughed in the face of Fate again and again.

Just to end up here, walking through the crowd with the sheriff in front and the judge behind and the clock next to town hall telling him he's got about 2 minutes and 37 seconds left, give or take. 'Course, that's just when they let him hang, but if they built it right (and he knows the men that did it, they'd do right by him), it should be over almost immediately. Thank God for the small things, he guesses.

He doesn't meet the eyes of anyone he passes, even though he's been doing so for the last 24 years. From the corners of his eyes, he can see their faces, sick and gray to match the clouded over sky, and it gives him some sense of vindication: they know he ain't no killer. A damn fool sometimes, sure, with a big mouth to match, but he's never let it go past a few slugs behind the general store when he's been in his cups. They all wear the same expression, as if they can't believe what they're about to witness, that they can't believe they dragged themselves to this square to even watch it to begin with. The usual excitement of a hanging, the loud jeers and swaying of the crowd moving in to the accused are all absent. They're all as quiet as a fox sneaking into the hen house.

He gets a good look at them when they turn him to face the crowd on the scaffold. He can't help but search out the faces, looking for Myungsoo, and when he sees him, face covered by both hands, he looks away quick, almost wishing he didn't. He can feel the sobs that are wracking his body, knows the sounds he's making, and he lets it sink in for the first time. The last person Myungsoo's had since the very beginning is leaving him, just like they all did, and now he'll be alone, really alone, for the first time in his life. Myungsoo, the man who's always needed someone, alone.

Minus her, that is. He looks up again, and there she is, one arm wrapped around Myungsoo, almost as if to keep him upright. Her face is still, emotionless, and it's the last thing he's grateful for on Earth, that she was there for Myungsoo, that she didn't let a single tear fall. God bless women like her.

The noose grates as his skin roughly as they slide it around his neck, and he sees someone in the back turn real quickly, sees the crowd move away. He can almost feel the way they vomit, feel his own stomach roll even though he declined his last meal, and his fists clench shut. On to eternity, or nothingness, either one is fine by him.

The last thing that goes through his mind is that the clock says 12:01, and that the damn sheriff was never good with time anyway.

* * *

It's late in the afternoon, on a Sunday, when he hears shouting out in the street. Myungsoo's back, and he can hear it yelled down the dirt road, shouts growing louder as Myungsoo gets closer to the company store. Myungsoo's one of the few who gets to leave the county on a regular basis, and particularly one of the only ones who can go to a city like Nashville, and it sets the whole town abuzz. One'd think he'd been gone a month in an African jungle. He might of well has been.

The door swings open, and all the men crowded over their cups send up raucous greetings in unison, calling Myungsoo over and dragging him through a bevy of slaps on the backs. They all want to know what he did, who he saw, how Moonsoo is doing and when he’s finally going to leave and never come back. Usually, Myungsoo would shyly entertain their thirst for outside experiences, sit down between them and quietly recall his adventures, but he’s excited today, fingers curling up into balls and flattening out against his thighs as his eyes shift around the room.

He knows Myungsoo’s looking for him, but he doesn’t move to stand out, doesn’t raise a hand to wave him over. Myungsoo will see him eventually, drag him out and away from the bar, so he throws his company scrip down on the counter as payment, standing up lesiurely as if to announce his presence. Myungsoo’s over in a second, his arm locked in an overly firm grasp that says as much about his excitement as the nearly visible vibrations of his body. Something’s done gone and happened in Nashville, and Myungsoo’s more agitated than a wet hen bursting to say it.

They walk together down the dirt road, two sets of long legs casting shadows in the dying light, but Myungsoo’s silent, apparently not wanting to be overheard by the mill of people they pass, both of them greeting them hurriedly as they move along. They’re headed towards Myungsoo’s own cabin, and he lets his mind wander, deciding what he’s brought back this time. Maybe it’s a photograph of himself, taken by one Moonsoo’s professors, him dressed in a real suit with oiled hair slicked back. Or maybe, he’s bought a new record, one to play on the player in the general store on Saturday night while the old folks dance under the stars out on the porch. Myungsoo’s always bringing something back, as if the object reminds him of his trip, a tangible escape he can hold in his own hands.

When they get to the steps of Myungsoo’s cabin, he jumps to the second step like normal, leaping over the first, but Myungsoo pulls him back, bringing him close enough to whisper in his ear.

“I got a wife now.”

At first he thinks he must have heard wrong, or that Myungsoo’s pulling his chain. He jerks back, searching Myungsoo’s face, but it’s pure, unadulterated excitement, crinkled in his eyes, pulling at the corners of his mouth. Myungsoo’s proud, happy, ecstatic. He can’t believe it.

He can’t believe it until he follows Myungsoo up the steps, over the threshold and into the main room, where she’s sitting in the rocking chair Myungsoo’s father made for his mother when they got married. It reminds him of the photo over the bed in the bedroom, of Myungsoo’s mother and her curled hair illuminated in black and white, sitting in that very chair. That’s where the similarities end; Myungsoo’s mother was born on the mountain, raised under the hot summer sun and in the river with the knowledge of what her life would always be like. This woman, with her leather heels and painted lips, couldn’t be more out of place if she tried.

He doesn’t know what to say, and neither does she. Myungsoo’s happiness does little to compensate for the stifling unhappiness that lays like a damp blanket over the room. She doesn’t move to introduce herself, to even meet his eye, to look anywhere but the floor, and he realizes very quickly she’s in shock, plain and simple. Whatever happened in Nashville, whatever happened between them, she either had no idea this is where she’d come home to, or wasn’t properly prepared for it. God damn Myungsoo and his foolishness.

“Sungyeol, this is Tori. Tori, this is my best friend, Sungyeol, who I was tellin' you 'bout on the train back-“

He can’t take her eyes off of her. It’s like watching a dying animal, knowing you should relieve it from it’s misery but unsure if you’re strong enough to be the one to do it. She flinches when he talks, eyes narrowing when he says her name, but Myungsoo doesn’t see it, chatting on without end.

“Victoria.”

He barely hears her over Myungsoo’s endless, over-excited stream of how they met and ended up married in three days, and Myungsoo does a double take himself, voice floundering as he realizes she’s said something.

“Huh?”

“Victoria. My name is Victoria.”

He almost expects her to be bitter, to speak to Myungsoo in a tone reserved for the very worst of people one could imagine, but instead, it comes out reluctant, passive and something else, resigned almost. She doesn’t seem angry, just devastated, maybe confused, not fiery and passionate in her unhappiness but more like a candle that’s blown out, leaving behind a dark room. Dark. Her eyes are dark, and her hair is dark. And most of all, she is dark; her mind, or her heart, one of the two. Dark as the coal beneath their feet.

“Oh, uh, right. Well, anyway, I saw her ad in the paper looking for a husband and not 24 hours later we was in front of the judge at the town hall and we was officially married. I’d say it’s high time I start a family, and Tori here made an honest man out of me, and I thought you should be the first to know, Sungyeol.”

His own name draws him back out of the place he was, somewhere off thinking about how someone so beautiful should never look so devastated, how someone he loved and cherished could be so stupid and naive, how life ain’t fair but that some things are simply more unfair than others. It’s hard to pretend to be happy for Myungsoo, but he does it anyway, almost feeling as if his forced smile and cheerfulness is rubbing salt in her wounds, that everyone in the world is seemingly happy about this besides her. He doesn’t blame her, if she feels that way. He doesn’t blame Myungsoo either, and yet he almost does; why the hell didn’t Myungsoo just stay put in Nashville? Why come back to this godforsaken place?

He tries to tell himself it isn’t him, but he knows it is. Myungsoo can leave, go to Nashville and live with Moonsoo if he wanted; Moonsoo would welcome him with open arms. But Myungsoo won’t leave him behind, and he won’t go. He has nothing, the clothes on his back and his work boots and tools and lunch pail, the roof over his head and an extra set of sheets for his bed and a few books and a set of skillets from his daddy’s mama. Everything else went to get Daeyeol out, and he has too much pride to live in another man’s house, like he was a child all over again. He’ll stay here ’til he dies, even if it kills him, just like it kills everyone else, a slow death under the burden of life.

He thinks about that, memorizing Victoria’s face in an almost desperate to preserve her beauty in his mind. It’ll all change soon, the lines will creep in, the stress of work and children and poverty. He memorizes her face after he’s closed the door to the cabin, when he cooks his grits and ham, when he lies in bed. He doesn’t stop thinking about her face all night, even up until the morning when he gets out of bed and starts his day. He tells himself it’s simply concern. Even he knows that’s a lie.

* * *

Even stranger than knowing the hour of your death is watching yourself die.

Then again, he supposes he’s not really watching himself die; he did die. Now he’s just watching his body hang there, lifeless, as the crowd disperses. He watches Myungsoo be led away by a group, Victoria at the very center, and he belatedly realizes that even death has not prevented him from feeling his heart rip apart.

Indeed, it takes him a moment to realize that he’s picked up right where he left off, dying in one moment and reappearing in the very next, right in the square, but no one seems to notice him. He doesn’t feel them handling his body as they cut it down, the light of his world doesn’t grow dimmer when they put him in his coffin and nail it shut, the closure doesn’t come as a crowd gathers around a grave on the mountain, saying their goodbyes without even a pastor there to sanctify his plot. He’s most certainly dead, and yet...

He’s not.

Or he is, but not quite. He can’t feel the crunch of ice beneath his feet as he walks on the frozen grass in the morning before the town wakes up. He doesn’t bump into the walls of the houses and buildings he visits, walking through as if they were nothing. But he still sees, still hears, still feels. And he feels pretty bitter, to tell the truth.

He was supposed to go on, leave this world and go to see his mama and daddy, or at least go straight to Hell (not that he believed it really existed, though the idea scandalized Myungsoo whenever they spoke about it). Instead, he’s stuck here, and from what he can tell, he’s alone, on this plane of existence.

He tries, of course. Goes down to the sheriff’s office, stands right in front of his face and screams for hours. Nothing. He walks right through people, lingers around their houses, does everything he can to get them to notice him, and no one does. He’s alone, and from what he can tell, he’s not going anywhere either.

His damn luck.

* * *

“She don’t touch me none.”

He hears Myungsoo well enough, but doesn’t make a move to respond. He doesn’t want to have this conversation, doesn’t want to hear this story or Myungsoo’s reasonings behind why or even to hear him just complain and vent and rant. He doesn’t want to hear she’s anything less than absolutely happy here. It’s so much easier to pretend.

“Mmm,” he finally grunts when the weight of Myungsoo’s eyes feel like they’re boring holes into the back of his neck, and Myungsoo proceeds, obviously needing the comfort of another through this struggle of his.

“If I approach her, she doesn’t pull away, but she don’t...well, frankly, I just don’t know. She don’t make a move to touch me back. Like she’s just enduring it until it’s done, you know?”

“Some women are like that.”

“So you’ve experienced it too, then?”

“Well, no.”

Myungsoo stares him down as if he’s trying to discern if he’s pulling his chain, but he knows better than to make a joke right now. Myungsoo’s life he’s planned out isn’t working out like he had hoped, and he has a temper about him that almost comes from nowhere. There’s no room for joking in this bed he’s made.

“She doesn’t talk much, to me,” Myungsoo proceeds, picking up his axe again as if to continue working before thinking better of it. “But sometimes, I hear her talking to herself, while she’s sewing or cooking, like she’s lonesome for company but with no one around. Doesn’t she know I’m here? I’m her husband, dammit!”

The pick arcs into the wall, black rock exploding off of it, but he doesn’t even flinch as Myungsoo hacks away. Myungsoo’s not necessarily looking for a solution, but obviously needs to hear something, and he doesn’t have an answer for him. Least, not one he’ll like hearing, or even accept.

“You should come to dinner. See how she is with me. See what’s wrong. God knows you know women better than I do myself.” Myungsoo’s buzzing with energy now, mind running so fast with this thought he can practically hear it turning, and he can’t come up with an excuse quick enough.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s gone there since Victoria came home with Myungsoo a few months back. He’s endured enough social calls to last him forever, Myungsoo and Victoria seemingly picturesque in their neat little cabin. But there, below the surface, the truth’s illuminated through the cracks in their marriage, shining through, and he prefers not to have face the reality that both Myungsoo and Victoria are very, very unhappy.

He doubts they’d even admit it to themselves, however. Myungsoo’s well-fed, clothes mended and washed, house cleaned and errands run. Victoria does everything Myungsoo wanted in a wife (their marriage bed included, even if it is with a detached distance), but he knows Myungsoo wants more. Myungsoo hoped for a relationship like his parents, one with playfulness and romance and genuine love, and he doesn’t have nearly enough courage to tell Myungsoo that’s not going to happen.

And Victoria, well, he’s not sure what she would have wanted, doesn't know her half as well as enough to even hazard a guess, but he can imagine this isn’t anything close to what she had hoped for when she put an ad in the paper searching for a husband. Her accent, her demeanor, the clothes she wears - she couldn't be more out of place in the country, surrounded by women who don't trust her not to look down on them, saddled with a husband who wants her to love him with no seeming effort on his part. Whatever it was she was trying to get away from, trying to find, he sincerely doubts it's anywhere close to her solution.

But he still finds himself on the sideyard of their cabin, peeling off his outer coat and boots in preparation for dinner. If he'd been smarter, he'd have made some excuse of the state of his hygiene, a need to go home and clean properly instead of sullying someone else's place, but Myungsoo had nearly dragged him to the cabin by force as is. He tries thoroughly to scrub off as much soot as possible without stripping down completely, remaining at the water trough long after Myungsoo's headed inside, but his reflection in the water still looks filthy. He only comes when Myungsoo leans off the porch, teasing him for supposed prissiness.

When he finally gets inside, Victoria is running in a veritable frenzy, checking a skillet in the oven, boiling water for coffee, or tea (another gift from Moonsoo, too exorbitant for local folk like them to afford), cleaning invisible specks of dust from tables and windowsills. He moves to help, but one look at his soot-dyed fingernails makes him think twice, and Myungsoo's pulling him into a conversation anyway. It's all reminiscent of childhood, when he and Myungsoo and Daeyeol and Moonsoo would sit on this very floor, listening to their mothers in the kitchen, their fathers at their chairs, an endless cacophony of warm voices. The fried chicken smells the same, the crocheted rug hasn't changed, but Myungsoo's endless drone is so different. So out of touch in this cabin. This cabin has changed.

Victoria sets the table without a word, pulling out a nice dining set reserved for company much loftier than just he, and he helps her grab the last of the silverware and the butter dish from the sideboard before she can reach it. She falters, as if surprised, as he sidles out of her outstretched hands, a smile and "I got it, but thank ye kindly, ma'am" sent in her direction over his shoulder as they sit down. Myungsoo's already present, head bowed to begin the grace. His eyes remain open, as usual, and he can't help but notice Victoria's own stare emptily at the wall as Myungsoo goes on in his benedictions.

The spread is too much, fried chicken and mustard greens and biscuits, whipped butter and honey and leftover gravy from breakfast, and he can't help but say as much, ragging on Victoria for the effort his visit didn't necessitate. He keeps his voice low and humorous, and it earns him a small smile as she tells him to hush up and eat his dinner before the chicken goes cold; Myungsoo watches blankly, as if not even noticing. Then again, Myungsoo's seen him work every trick in his book on women, seen it work too, but the situational osmosis has never took; the fool still knows less about women than he does about doctoring or astronomy.

Myungsoo tries his best eventually, leaning over to tell her "great dinner, Tori" before placing a single kiss on her cheek, and he watches in disgust, feeling her apprehension as if it were his own. The kiss leaves a halo of gray-black on her face, leftover soot that was never washed away, and he doesn't even realize what he's done until Myungsoo's shirt is already in his hand.

"Just what do-" Myungsoo protests, but he kicks open the back door without a second thought, dragging Myungsoo along and leaving an awestruck Victoria behind, and they return to the water trough. He heaves up a bucket, pushing Myungsoo's head over the tub and pouring it over, and Myungsoo sputters wetly as the icy water runs in black streaks down his face.

"You're ruining the whole place your wife works so hard to clean with your filth, you ass. Your mama would've kilt you if you have walked into her house like that. Clean yourself up before touching her, much less sitting at her tablecloth and using her napkins."

Myungsoo rubs a hand over his face, looking at the smeared mess as if seeing it for the first time, and it finally clicks, his mouth rounding into a silent O as he stares at his reflection in the pool of water. He tries not to think about how long Myungsoo's been doing this, leaving a trail of coal dust around the house for her to clean up, coming to her and leaving it on her skin, totally unaware and ignorant of his very actions.

He can see it, can see how unhappiness blossoms in this house, how it's not really the fault of either and yet it is. Neither of them willing to speak, willing to work, endlessly hoping it will just get better, partially out of a lack of knowing what to do, partially out of expectations placed to high on the other. He can see it, but it doesn't excuse it, on either part, and he can't help them; he can't even stomach being around them.

Myungsoo finally returns to the cabin, much cleaner this time, and the continue on with dinner. Myungsoo really does try, making jokes that fall flat, starting conversation lines that lead to nothingness before finally retreating to the loveseat, legs kicked up on the pillow as he lounges. He stares back and forth between his two options before finally lifting his plate and the glass bowls on the table and placing them in the sink.

"You needn't do that." They never spoken much, but he's always taken aback by Victoria's care in her word choice. Careful is a word he would very much use to describe her. He sees her disdain, but also how she attempts to hide it. She knows her situation, the insurmountable odds against her in any pursuit of happiness she might be on, and how she toes that mountain edge, balancing precariously. But more than that, he thinks she just doesn't have it in her; she could hate Myungsoo, hate anything, but instead she turns her unhappiness into work, doing more than most women on the mountain could ever dream. She doesn't let herself fall into despair so easily. She's trying.

It's just, she doesn't know how to love Myungsoo. Or anyone, he's not sure. She can't make herself do it, so she doesn't even pretend.

Especially not with him. He sees the walls fall down a bit when her scoots her aside with the mere presence of his body, taking up her rag to wash the dishes off from dinner. She protests weakly before picking up her own towel to dry the dishes off, both of them paying to mind to Myungsoo's calls of him doing women's work. He helped his mother every night, two sets of hands making the work so much quicker, listening to her tell stories of her own childhood, of recipes his grandmother made and games she played with his aunt. And now, he tells the stories to Victoria while Myungsoo falls into a slumber behind them. He's never told anyone these stories, never thought anyone would care, but Victoria listens intently, adding her own experiences into the stream of memories.

He leaves after slapping a hand on Myungsoo's chest to wake him, but before he's aware enough to speak. He's done enough talking for tonight, and he needs to get out of the cabin, away from this woman who makes him want to sit and talk and learn about her, something he had no experience in and no practical use for. He nods to them both, not missing the way Victoria's eyes follow him through the room, and he shuts the door solidly, as if to leave all the remnants of the night in the room. Instead, they follow him all the way home.

* * *

It’s way to damn early to have a conversation, but the damn sheriff’s always seemed unaffected by the hands of the clock on his wall.

He’s already on his porch when the sheriff meanders on down the path, quilt wrapped around his shoulders to ward off the cold. He isn’t even aware how long he’s been here; long enough that his feet are numb, the fabric of his trousers stiff in the cold, wet dawn. He’s been up since before the sun, staring at the window of the cabin three down, as if he could see through it, see the occupant inside, all alone on her big bed, body curled around itself tightly to maintain warmth against the frigid air.

The fog obscures the road, and the sheriff appears out of the mist at his step almost before he has a chance to realize he’s even coming. Whatever it is (and it’s never good, with the sheriff), this isn’t an early morning social call. The sheriff wants something from him, something important enough to drop in with the rising of the sun, and a heavy sort of sinking feeling rolls in his stomach uncomfortably.

“Sheriff.”

He doesn’t like the sheriff, and the sheriff isn’t the most kind on him either, so he skips out on any polite bullshitting he reserves mostly for the older women and a select few of the men he works with in the mines. The sheriff will announce his intent when he feels like it, and he doesn’t need to drawl out any conversation longer than it has to be.

“Where was you last night, boy?” The sheriff’s tongue rolls out the word boy slowly, as if to remind him of his age, his status, his low regard in the sheriff’s own eyes, and he shrugs it off like it doesn’t bother him, staring out into the mist.

“Here.”

“Alone?”

“Who else would I be with?” He knows he needs to be careful, that there’s some business here he’s not been informed of yet, but he can’t help but let the caustic, sarcastic side of himself darken his tone, show his indifference in his voice. He certainly didn’t partake in the festivities of the night before, like usual, and that left him here, where everyone knew he would be alone, particularly with Myungsoo away.

The sheriff doesn’t react to that, like he normally would, and he begins to sense for the first time something is very wrong. He can’t help the thousand thoughts that rush to his mind, like a mad dash in his head; did something happen to her? Did something happen to Myungsoo? Maybe a letter, from the post, arriving to let him know something terrible about Daeyeol. No, that wouldn’t explain why the sheriff was asking him about last night. So, then, what? What’s behind the sheriff’s words, behind the look in his eyes?

“So no one can verify you was here? Particularly, all night. Just your word then?”

He debates how to answer that question for a moment, but bites back any answer besides a simple “no.” He could lie, could argue everyone in the whole town knew exactly where he was, but it just seems easier this way. Just say no.

The sheriff stares him down for a moment, like he’s simply looking at him for the first time. He wants to look away, feeling his skin crawl under the assessment, before the sheriff finally rubs a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to ward off some oncoming headache. For the first time in his life, he sees a man that’s old, tired, grayed and wrinkled and run-down.

“I knew your father since we was children and I have to say I cain’t believe he ever raised no son that would do something as despicable as-“

“Now, what?”

“Why’d you it, son?”

He doesn’t know what, but now he knows why, and the denial rises like vomit in his throat, hot and quick and burning. It comes out steady, unwavering, a simple “I never”, but his hands are shaking, a mix of fear and anger and confusion. If there sheriff thinks he did whatever, if the sheriff is here on his front doorstep, his fates been sealed. He might as well go gently.

“I reckon you need to come on down with me, boy.” It’s not a question, not a request, and he eventually nods, laying the quilt along the railing on the steps. It’s his mother’s wedding quilt, hand-stitched delicately over months, passed down to him to pass down to his own daughter for her wedding. Normally, he wouldn’t treat is as such, but he’ll be back soon to bring it back inside. He has to leave it there. Right there on the railing, in the sun and under the clouds that threaten to snow.

He has to come back and get it. He’s coming back to get it.

* * *

He sees her in the company store, but he doesn’t manage to get away before she sees him too.

“Sungyeol!”

He’s supposed to be watching her, per Myungsoo’s orders, but frankly, she ain’t a child or a dog. She’s a grown woman, fully capable of doing anything she pleases, and ain’t nothing going to happen to her in the three days Myungsoo plans to be gone. In fact, he very well planned to avoid her altogether; just to make it easier on her.

And himself.

Still, he drags himself over; the manager of the store and her were having a heated discussion from what it seems, and he can’t help but come to her. She needs him. He has to.

“Victoria, sir,” he nods to them respectively as he approaches them, and they both begin to talk at once, gesturing at the other as their voices rise into a sharp symphony of noise.

“Wait wait wait, now hold on here just a darned minute, one at a time.” He waves his hands, signaling them to stop, and when they finally quiet down, he lets the manager go ahead first, listening to him drone on and on about how this woman doesn’t know what she wants, and that she’s wasting his time (obviously overlooking the emptiness of the store besides the three of them, but the manager’s always been prejudiced against outsiders.

The scene reminds him so much of his childhood, standing here with eyes barely peeking over the counter, trying to help his mother find the right word for what she wanted. Victoria reminds him too much of his mother, brought here from a life more comfortable and less tragic, but he tries not to see it. He loved his mother, her strength and perseverance, and if he lets himself, he’ll love Victoria, standing next to him with a quiet will that won’t give up, chin raised to the manager, he’ll love her for the same things.

“I need-“ she starts, looking around the shelves, before she begins to explain.

“Fabric?” he asks, when she points at her own dress, but she shakes her head.

“No, no, not that, it’s called, hm, it’s-“

She leans toward him, grabbing his arm, and he has to stop himself before he jerks back. He’s touched many women, had them touch him too, but not this one. Never this one. But here she is, long fingers wrapped around his wrist as her other hand draws a path up his forearm, tracing the line of his shirt. He understands what she’s doing, but he lets her go on before offering up a solution, letting the heat of her palm brand his wrist.

“Thread? For sewing?”

The manager leans under the counter, bringing up a box filled with spools of blacks and whites and blues, and she claps her hands once, more excited than he’s ever seen her.

“Yes, yes, thank you. Thread!” Her mouth forms around the word strangely, but he can tell she’s already repeating it in her mind, again and again, just so she’ll never forget it. Just like his-

“You are paying for this, right?” the manager pushes, and he sends the man a withering look that makes him look down at his hands quickly. He might not be the most popular man in the town, but people owe him a good amount of respect due to his hard-working demeanor and the fact that he mostly minds his own business, and no one wants to be the one to wrong him.

Victoria digs through her pocketbook, drawing out scrip and placing it on the counter, and he lets his fist relax around the coins in his own pocket. He’d pay for it himself, but he knows that’d be an insult to her, something she wouldn’t appreciate, and besides, she needs to be able to do these things alone, without him. If she knew Myungsoo asked him to watch over her while he was gone, she’d be affronted, not trusting either of them, and he needs to stay away from her for everyone’s sake, before he screws up.

And if Myungsoo knew he had taken that those words to heart, had followed her all morning, watching her pump water, watching her pick flowers by the river, hiding in the shadows, behind buildings and amongst the hills where she couldn’t see, well, he can’t even imagine that happening. It can’t happen.

He tries to slide away from the ongoing conversation quietly, hand lingering on the door handle so it shuts silently, but he barely makes it down the road before he hears her calling his name, heavy steps as she hurries to catch up with him. He could ignore it, walk on and quicken his steps and shut himself in his cabin before she might reach him, but it's becoming more and more obvious to him and the others walking down the path, judging by the looks they send him, that she really, really wants him to stop.

He slows down without stopping, trying to figure out this conundrum of social niceties and self-preservation, before finally turning to greet her. Might as well bite the bullet, and besides, how much damage can he really do to his quickly-vanishing self-control out in the middle of public?

He sorely regrets that a moment later when she finally catches to him, breathless and flushed, and before he can even help it he imagines making her feel like that again, in a very different situation.

"Sungyeol, I didn't get to say thank you!" It's a meaningless thought to near-run down the path to tell him, and they both know that, but he nods slowly regardless, as if slowly taking in her gratitude.

"Well, I reckon I might help anyway I might be able to. No need to thank me." It comes out gruff, formal to a tee, and he sees her take it in, unsure of how to respond.

"Yes, well," she continues, brows drawn down as if trying to remember what she wanted to say, "you've certainly been the most helpful person I've encountered here in town in my time."

The implication isn't lost on him, and he knows she's well aware that he hasn't let that slip by him either. What he doesn't get is what she's playing at, what end game she has in mind, and he nods slowly again, unsure of what else to say.

"Sure, sure. Anytime you need, I'm more than willing to assist ye as best I can. Have a good day now, Victoria. Evening." He turns again, conversation finished in his mind, but she grabs his forearm for the second time, pulling him back around.

"I have some ham cooking in the stove, if you'd like to stop by for dinner."

It's innocent enough, her face politely blank behind that statement, but he doesn't trust it, even if he'd trust if from any other woman on this hill, whether their husbands were at home or not. It simply wouldn't look right, a single man going to another man's house in his absence, no matter their relations. That's the way people begin talking, how rumors form and the like. How accidents are made.

"I've mine own fish to fry I caught just the afternoon, but I thank you kindly, ma'am," he replies as courteous as possible, putting distance between the two of them before turning to leave again.

"How did you find the time? I thought you were following me up and down the valley near all afternoon," she whispers so just they hear it, voice lacking all ill-will, indeed, teasing almost.

He doesn't have an answer for that, doesn't even bother to look back at her before heading off to his own home a little quicker than his normal pace.

* * *

He finds time becomes so irrelevant, he only notices it's passing with the changing of the seasons. Winter melts into spring, spring heats into the early mornings of summer, and life and death continues on the mountainside.

Her gradually growing body reminds him months are passing by too. He spends a lot of his time in their cabin, only leaving when he sees Myungsoo lifting her shift over her head. Then he goes back to his grave, as if his headstone were some portal to a different place. The days grow long, and he sees her sweating under the weight of the child, sees the heat create a visage of the road in the distance, and though he can no longer feel it, he knows it must be miserable for her.

But she bears it with a rational calmness he didn't know anyone one person could possess. Even when her time comes, her mouth remains in a hard line, closed to any sound, like she were trying to figure out a puzzle instead of bringing a child into the world. Myungsoo cries over the girl, tears of happiness, but she doesn't; she opens her arms, taking her in with a look of determination. She never loses that persistent will, even when the child screams into the night endlessly, and she stays up with her alone.

Time seems to accelerate, though he figures that makes little sense. He watches the girl growing, as fast as a flower in the valley, shooting up overnight, and it isn't long before he begins to feel an uneasiness he can't place. Something's off, but he just doesn't know what it is.

He follows them sometimes, through the roads that are beginning to look so different than when he could really walk them, and he listens to Victoria's conversations as she stops in on someone's porch to chat while the girl plays in the grass. Motherhood had introduced her into the circle of women on the mountain, dissolved any barriers that had imposed upon her, and she stops on the stoop of one of the old widows on a fine morning, calling out her greetings.

They sit and chat for a time, and he listens, nothing better to do, when he hears the old woman bring the child up. "She's the spittin' image of her granny, y'know," she says, as if it means nothing, and he looks back down at child he's looked at for nearly three years, as if seeing her for the first time.

Of course, there was always the chance. He had just hoped it wasn't the case. But he looks down and sees the almond eyes, the round cheeks and open smile of his mother, almost as if she were born again in this little girl. There's no doubt who this child's father is.

And as she grows up, there's certainly no doubt. She looks just like him, just like his mother, enough that every cabin he sits in manages to bring it up one or twice, or even more often. The only one who doesn't see it is Myungsoo, who claims to all who will listen she looks like his aunt, though whether through willful ignorance or true naïveté, he's not sure. Everyone else, they all know.

When Daeyeol finally makes it back, when the girl is 5 or 6, he watches her intently, and he doesn't blame him. The last bit of his own blood, living in this girl, and Daeyeol seems drawn to her, just to watch her. Daeyeol watches her in grotesque fascination, and Victoria watches him in the same way. Only Myungsoo doesn't seem to notice, cheerily inviting Daeyeol in night after night in his stay in town, talking to him like time never passed from when Daeyeol left the mountains and went out to find his own place in the world. And he watches from the corner, at a room full of people watching someone else.

They both tell Daeyeol his story, of his trial, overseen by a judge who presumed his guilt from the moment he entered the courtroom, of how the man had questioned him, providing him an out so long as he could provide one living soul who'd seen him that night. The witnesses had lined up, brought in from this town and that over near a month's time to testify that he'd almost certainly been the man under the town hall light, the killer of that man on the night the town danced in the barn down a ways. And he hadn't said a word, had stared at the wall like he hadn't even heard the judge. So they had built the scaffold, had kept him locked up, and then they had led him off.

Daeyeol collects his remaining possessions, giving away this pot or these stools almost as if he doesn't want a piece of it for himself, like he doesn't want to remember a single part, and he doesn't blame him. He watches him get rid of it all, bit by bit, until all that's left is the quilt, their mother's quilt. He's almost sure his heart would stop if it were still beating when he follows Daeyeol down the path, wondering where he's going. He should have known it too.

Daeyeol knocks on their door when Myungsoo's in the mines, and Victoria answers it with that constant look she gives Daeyeol, the one that tells even him exactly how she still feels. If Daeyeol notices, he lets her look, and he walks past her without saying anything.

The girl wraps herself around Daeyeol, his continued presence making her comfortable, and he can feel tears that no longer exist within in run down his face. The quilt hangs solidly in Daeyeol's hands as he wraps his own arms around the girl, pushing his face into her hair, and Victoria stands silently. Daeyeol finally lets her go, throwing the quilt down on the settee, and he goes to leave abruptly without another word.

"Why?" she asks, stopping him with one hand. It's plain curiosity, simple as that, but he also sees the way she stares at it, eyes fixated as the memories come back. Daeyeol doesn't realize the significance, but he does, and isn't it fitting to give a child a gift that symbolizes their very creation?

"My mother wanted her granddaughter to have it."

She doesn't try to deny it, because there's no way she could, and Daeyeol obviously doesn't judge her for it anyway. "Won't he question it?"

"Him? Lord knows, probably not. If he does, say I was being charitable. It's what he would have wanted, anyway." Her and Daeyeol both know exactly which hes they're talking about, and with that Daeyeol's gone, hopefully far away from this place, and he never sees him again in these parts.

* * *

It's cold enough to see his breath, but he doesn't light the fire. If he lights the fire, the drunks and young women and other men will see the light as they walk past, will knock on his door and draw him into the street and down to the barn, refusing to let him be alone on a night like this.

He can hear the music, a loud symphony of a fiddler from two towns aided by a spoon-player from the down the way himself, a real double bass carried over the hills just for tonight and the voices and hands of a few hundred aiding the band. He can hear laughter, carried on the frozen wind like a bird caught in a gale, and isn't nice that someone could be so happy, their laughter would cover the hillside like a warm blanket over a cold bed? he wonders.

He could be there, too, but he doesn't see a point. A single pretty woman in the whole damned lot, but not one he can touch. And if he goes, goes and drinks the corn whisky and talks the big talk with the men, lets the crowd excite him until he pulls her in for a close, fast dance until their hips move together because he can't help himself from the music and the alcohol and the feel of her in his hands, well, wouldn't that be a story for Myungsoo to come back to? he continues thinking to himself. Myungsoo asked him to watch over her, like so many times he left before, but now it feels all different. Dangerous. He's avoided her this whole time, because if she comes close enough, he'll catch her like a fly in a spiderweb.

His woolen shirt lays upon the stove, still warm from supper, and he bears the cold a bit longer, reveling the cold air on his bare chest like some sort of penance for the thoughts he's thought these few days Myungsoo's been gone. Of Victoria, alone and cold in her bed. Of the feeling he could bring to her, the desire to warm her body, to draw her close, to see her hair fanned out across her pillow like black silk.

He physically shakes himself, as if it would mentally scatter the recurring thoughts, and the music takes a sharp upturn, as if to placate his uneasiness. It's safe now, to light the fire, most everyone down at the barn, crowded in with strangers from the whole countryside, and no one will miss him. Not a single person.

The wood's out in the basket, and he doesn't even pull on his shirt, steeling himself to as he opens the door against the chill, meaning to run across the lawn to the pile and back. He steps out on the porch, and like a specter, summoned by his intrepid thoughts, she's just there, standing on the grass, under the moon.

He had hoped she would forget, would get caught up in the festivity, but from the look she gives him, apparently not. Perhaps all prayers aren't heard, because he prayed they could stay away from one another but here she is, eyes set upon him like a hunter raising his rifle toward a deer.

"There you are." It's an obvious statement, one that doesn't need a reply because of course he's here, and she moves toward him, eyes softening in such a way that he realizes she was concerned at first. He wants to send her away, hand moving up on its own as if the signal her to leave, but then she shivers violently against the gust of wind that sweeps between the houses, and he mutters something rough, "god dammit Victoria," but she doesn't react to that, just to him pulling her in, close to his body, not much warmer than hers, and he doesn't even remember moving toward her.

Her dress is her best, a thin summer shift decorated with flowers, certainly intended for night of dancing, but not for a frigid winter, and he hauls her inside without a second thought, sitting her by the stove with a warning not to move. His feet dance over the ground as he runs out the backdoor, hurried not only on his own part to avoid the cold but in haste to warm her up, and he returns with as many logs as he can fit between his arms, throwing three into the pit in the wall. Neither of them move to speak, and he's mighty glad for that, because she's pure reckless, and he means to give her a piece of his mind if she tries to make excuses for herself.

As it is, he ends up before her while the fire grows, casting a glow over her. He's angry, unequivocally so, but he's not sure if the anger is at himself or her, or both. Angry she came here. Angry he didn't turn her away. Angry that, despite everything, there's a certain thrill to this intimacy, to watching the shadows play across her face and see her look at him with eyes that know exactly what she's doing when she raises her fingers to trace a scar over his hipbone.

Her fingers still feel like ice, and so does the rest of her when he hauls her up against him again in a rush, her lips included. Their lips both, like ice against ice, but he remains solid while she melts like snow under the midday sun in his hands, becoming warm and malleable until she leans against him, almost as if she's trying to melt into him, seep down into his skin. He supports her indefinitely, mouths sealed to one another with no intent of ending, and he doesn't know how long they stay just like that, taking an inordinate amount of time at this whole kissing business as if somehow making up for lost time.

And that's how it generally goes, slow and thorough, so different from his normal self he almost doesn't know what to do. He's never wooed a woman before, generally relying on his charms and good looks to win them over quickly, but Victoria is different. In all his years, he's met many a woman who needed be touched and cherished, but never one so much as this one, and he lets that restrain him. What he wants from her is completely different, some new path he hasn't yet traveled.

The music is still playing down the road a ways, and he draws her hips against his, swaying around the sitting area without breaking away from her mouth. His hands run under the vee of her neckline, pulling the dress off her shoulders and letting it pool at her waist before they press against her collarbones, leaving heat in their wake as they roam over her shoulders and down her back. She's cold everywhere, and he circles them closer to the fire, pressing her own cold hands between their bare chests as he unbuttons the rest of her dress with one shaking hand, letting it drop to the floor before pressing back into her hips again.

The floor isn't his most choice of locations, but it's much warmer in front of the fire than on the cold sheets of his bed, and he reaches one hand behind him until he finds the quilt laid out upon the settee, throwing it on the floor and dragging her down to lay out upon it. Now, it's much easier to see her in all her glory, spread out beneath him like a goddess in one of the books Moonsoo sent him about Greek mythology, and he sits back on his heels, reveling in the sight of her.

She does wilt under his gaze, doesn't move to cover herself or avoid his eyes; instead, she stares back at him, the fire within her blazing higher than ever before, and he doesn't even know where to begin with this woman.

There's so many things he could begin with, so many tricks and tips he's picked up from this woman or that, but he's a little greedy tonight, a little crazed beyond that, and he skips her mouth, glides over her breasts and down her stomach until he's right at the heat of her, heady enough to smell.

She loses some of her infernal calm when his mouth touches her, and he wonders somewhere in the back of his mind if anyone's ever done this for her before. He knows nothing about her history, and proceeds as if no one has, making himself slow down to accommodate the new experience for her. He begins slowly, tongue circling in lazy movements, mentally balancing the right amount of pressure and speed, and he can't remember the last time he's thought so hard about this. And yet, despite his worries, it feels so damn good to finally be able to touch her; months and months of this unbearable dam of want is flooding through his mind, down his spine like rushing water and over the plains of his body.

He slides one finger through the very heat of her, parting her and drawing into her slowly, relishing the noises she makes. She's quiet even now, but not silent, just enough to encourage him, to let him know she likes it. His other hand runs up her leg, over her hip and the flat of her stomach, skin now warm as if kissed by a summer sun. He can't get enough, of the way she tastes and feels, trying to get as close to her as possible, finger calling to her inside as he goes on and on with his mouth. When she jerks, he pushes her farther, relentless, not letting up until he feels her pulling him closer inside, legs trembling on either side of him.

He sits up, giving her a moment to let the feeling take hold as she lays back down, and then he's kissing her again, both hands eager in their exploration. He usually doesn't go on until they've serviced him the same, seeing as fair is fair, but he's too eager now; he doesn't want to wait, and from the way she pulls him down, opening her legs for him, neither does she.

It takes a real, considerable effort to not finish right there, the moment he enters her, but he can't very well help it; not even the feeling of her around him does as much as the look she gives him, something real and deep that speaks more to her feelings than any exchange that's ever happened between them. Her eyebrows pull down, as if she's trying to discern just how this is real, and she pulls his face down between two hands, looking up at him as if memorizing his face, just like this. He moves once, twice, not looking away even when his eyes want to close. He's caught, and he goes on, chest to chest, nose to nose, hip to hip with this woman, not his and not anyone else's, her own ruler, who's led him to love her, just like this. He doesn't possess her, could never, but she possesses him, irrevocably.

He sees her mouth move, tongue skimming across her bottom lip, and he fears what she wants to say, so he kisses her soundly, not letting her say something that will really wound him inside. Instead, he gives himself up to the feeling of her in every part of himself, and of himself giving over to her, too. He uses his mouth for much more sensible things than declarations of love, even though is catches in his throat again and again, and she does the same, battling with him on the hard floor in front of the fire.

He loses track, of what they do and how they finish and begin again, on this quilt his mother sewed by hand and gave to him. Her hair melts into the stitch-work, he feels it beneath his back when she rises above him, it becomes of a part of their continued story, like the cover on a book of this tragedy. And then he pulls it over them, wrapping him in it's warmth and wrapping her in his own.

He doesn't sleep, but he watches her doze on and off, waiting for the guilt to appear and never having it come. She wakes up here and there, watches him too before sliding back into sleep, and he wakes her up before the sun. Near everyone will be too hungover to rise this early, to see her leave his cabin and head back to her own, but he doesn't want to chance it; adultery isn't viewed kindly in a town where the second-most respected man is the preacher. He places the dress back on her shoulders in a symmetry of actions he finds near poetic, and she finally says what he's seen in her eyes all night.

"We could run away."

It's like a question, almost, but not quite, and he finishes the buttons without even acknowledging it, walking her over to the door.

"No." He says it without heat, without pity or judgement or any notion that he thinks she's foolish for even suggesting it, but with enough force to let her know it's not up for discussion. She already knew, nods once as if she understands, and then she's gone with a kiss, off into the fog.

"Until then," he whispers after her, wondering exactly how he's going to handle this from now. He follows her out, quilt wrapped around him, watching the last spot he could see her at long after she's gone.

* * *

Sometimes he sits by his headstone, because Death has not prevented him from tiring of the company of humans and their endless nonsense. On cold nights like this, he sits away from the world out there, done waiting for a chance to move on from this world but comfortable enough sitting here for just a while longer.

On nights like these, nights like that night so long ago, he sees a great figure head his way, covered in black like a widow, head to toe without so much as a hand covered in black lace. He doesn't know where she got it all from, how she afforded a pure black veil that covers so fully, but he knows it's her from the first time she approaches.

Her cries meld with the howling of the wind, and he realizes that's why she does it, so no one hears her scream. Years pass, and she still comes, like many others do, to pay him his respects, maybe speak a few words to him, and to cry over his bones. And every time, he wishes there were some way he could move Heaven and Earth and whatever this world is, to let her know, to let them all know, that he hears them.

But he can't, and she finishes her mourning with a sigh, walking off the hill in her long black veil.


End file.
